The Rebel Worlds df-3 Page 4

  “What’s right in one place may be wrong in another. One species may be combative and anarchic by nature, another peaceful and antlike, a third peaceful and anarchic, a fourth a bunch of aggressive totalitarian hives. I know a planet where murder and cannibalism are necessary to race survival: high radiation background, you see, making for high mutation rate coupled with chronic food shortage. The unfit must be eaten. I know of intelligent hermaphrodites, and sophonts with more than two sexes, and a few that regularly change sex. They all tend to look on our reproductive pattern as obscene. I could go on for hours. Not to mention the variations imposed by culture. Just think about Terran history.

  “And then the sheer number of individuals and interests; the sheer distance; the time needed to get a message across our territory — No, we can’t direct everything. We haven’t the manpower. And if we did, it’d remain physically impossible to coordinate that many data.

  “We’ve got to give our proconsuls wide discretion. We’ve got to let them recruit auxiliaries, and hope those auxiliaries will know the local scene better than Imperial regulars. Above all, gentlemen, for survival if nothing else, we’ve got to preserve solidarity.”

  He waved a hand at the forward viewscreen. Alpha Crucis blazed lurid among the constellations; but beyond it — “If we don’t stick together, we Terrans and our non-human allies,” he said, “I assure you, either the Merseians or the wild races will be delighted to stick us separately.”

  He got no reply: not that he expected one. Was that a sufficiently stuffy speech? he wondered. And was it sufficiently truthful? I don’t know about that last. Nor do I know if I have any right to inquire.

  His ship swam into sight. The tiny spindle, well-nigh lost beside the vast glowing bulk of the planet and circled, grew to a steel barracuda, guns rakish across the star clouds. She was no more than an escort destroyer, she had speed but was lightly armed, her crew numbered a bare fifty. Nevertheless, she was Flandry’s first official command and his blood ran a little faster each time he saw her — even now, even now.

  The gig made a ragged approach. Willig probably didn’t feel well yet. Flandry refrained from commenting. The last part of the curve, under computer choreography, was better. When the boat housing had closed and repressurized, he dismissed his guards and went alone to the bridge.

  Halls, companionways, and shafts were narrow. They were painted gray and white. With the interior grav generators set for full Terran weight, thin deckplates resounded under boots, thin bulkheads cast the noise back and forth, voices rang, machinery droned and thumped. The air that gusted from ventilator grilles came fresh out of the renewers, but somehow it collected a faint smell of oil on the way. The officers’ cabins were cubbyholes, the forecastle could be packed tighter only if the Pauli exclusion principle were repealed, the recreation facilities were valuable chiefly as a subject for jokes, and the less said about the galley the wiser. But she was Flandry’s first command.

  He had spent many hours en route reading her official history and playing back tapes of former logbooks. She was a few years older than him. Her name derived from a land mass on Ardèche, which was apparently a human-settled planet though not one he had ever chanced upon mention of. (He knew the designation Asieneuve in different versions on at least four worlds; and he speculated on how many other Continent-class vessels bore it. A name was a mere flourish when computers must deal with millions of craft by their numbers.) She had gone on occasional troopship convoy when trouble broke loose on a surface somewhere. Once she had been engaged in a border incident; her captain claimed a probable hit but lacked adequate proof. Otherwise her existence had been routine patrols … which were essential, were they not?

  You didn’t salute under these conditions. Men squeezed themselves aside to make way for Flandry. He entered the bridge. His executive officer had it.

  Rovian of Ferra was slightly more than human size. His fur was velvet at midnight. His ponderous tail, the claws on his feet and fingers, the saber teeth in his jaws, could deal murderous blows; he was also an expert marksman. The lower pair of his four arms could assist his legs at need. Then his silent undulant gait turned into lightning. He habitually went nude except for guns and insignia. His nature and nurture were such that he would never become a captain and did not want to be. But he was capable and well liked, and Terran citizenship had been conferred on him.

  “S-s-so?” he greeted. His fangs handicapped him a little in speaking Anglic.

  Alone, he and Flandry didn’t bother to be formal. Mankind’s rituals amused him. “Bad,” the master said, and explained.

  “Why bad?” Rovian asked. “Unless it provokes revolt.”

  “Never mind the morals of it. You wouldn’t understand. Consider the implications, however.”

  Flandry inhaled a cigaret to lighting. His gaze sought Shalmu’s disc, where it floated unutterably peaceful in its day and night. “Why should Snelund do this?” he said. “It’s considerable trouble, and not without hazard. Ordinary corruption would earn him more than he could live to spend on himself. He must have a larger purpose, one that requires moonsful of money. What is it?”

  Rovian erected the chemosensor antennae that flanked the bony ridge on his skull. His muzzle twitched, his eyes glowed yellow. “To finance an insurrection? He may hope to become an independent overlord.”

  “M-m-m … no … doesn’t make sense, and I gather he’s not stupid. The Empire can’t conceivably tolerate breakaways. He’d have to be crushed. If necessary, Josip would be deposed to clear the track for that operation. No, something else—” Flandry brought his attention back. “Get patrol clearance for us to go in half an hour. Next rendezvous, Llynathawr.”

  Hyperdrive vibrations are instantaneous, though the philosophers of science have never agreed on the meaning of that adjective. Unfortunately, they damp out fast. No matter how powerful, a signal cannot be received beyond a distance of about one light-year. Thus spaceships traveling at quasivelocity are not detectable by their “wakes” at any farther remove than that. Neither are the modulations that carry messages quicker than light; and the uncertainty principle makes it impossible to relay them with any hope that they will not soon degenerate into gibberish.

  Accordingly Asieneuve was within two hours of her goal before she got the news. Fleet Admiral Hugh McCormac had escaped to the Virgilian System. There he had raised the standard of rebellion and proclaimed himself Emperor. An unspecified number of planets had declared for him. So had an unspecified proportion of the ships and men he formerly commanded. Armed clashes had taken place and full civil war looked inevitable.

  IV

  When the Empire purchased Llynathawr from its Cynthian discoverers, the aim had been to strengthen this frontier by attracting settlers. Most of the world was delightful in climate and scenery, rich in natural resources, wide in unclaimed lands. Navy sector headquarters were close enough, on Ifri, and housed enough power to give ample protection. Not all the barbarians were hostile; there existed excellent possibilities of trade with a number of races — especially those that had not acquired spacecraft — as well as with Imperial planets.

  Thus far the theory. Three or four generations showed that practice was something else again. The human species appeared to have lost its outward urge. Few individuals would leave a familiar, not too uncomfortable environment to start over in a place remote from government-guaranteed security and up-to-date entertainment. Those who did usually preferred city to rural life. Nor did many arrive from the older colonies nearby, like Aeneas. Such people had struck their own roots.

  Catawrayannis did become a substantial town: two million, if you counted in the floating population. It became the seat of the civil authority. It became a brisk mart, though much of the enterprise was carried on by nonhumans, and a pleasure resort, and a regional listening post. But that was the end of the process. The hinterland, latifundia, mines, factories, soon gave way to forests, mountains, trafficless oceans, empty plains, a wilderness where l
ights gleamed rare and lonely after dark.

  Of course, this has the advantage of not turning the planet as a whole into still another cesspool, Flandry thought. After reporting, he had donned mufti and spent a few days incognito. Besides sounding out various bourgeoisie and servants, he had passed through a particularly ripe Lowtown.

  And now I feel so respectable I creak, his mind went on. Contrast? No, not when I’m about to meet Aaron Snelund. His pulse quickened. He must make an effort to keep his face and bearing expressionless. That skill he owed less to official training than to hundreds of poker games.

  As a ramp lifted him toward an impressive portico, he glanced back. The gubernatorial palace crowned a high ill. It was a big pastel-tinted structure in the dome-and-colonnade style of the last century. Beneath its gardens, utilitarian office buildings for civil servants made terraces to the flatland. Homes of the wealthy ringed the hill. Beyond these, more modest residences blended gradually into cropground on the west side, city on the east. Commercial towers, none very tall, clustered near the Luana River, past which lay the slums. A haze blurred vision today and the breeze blew cool, tasting of spring. Vehicles moved insectlike through streets and sky. Their sound came as a whisper, almost hidden in the sough of trees. It was hard to grasp that Catawrayannis brawled with preparation for war, shrilled with hysteria, tensed with fear—

  — until a slow thundering went from horizon to horizon, and a spatial warcraft crossed heaven on an unknown errand.

  Two marines flanked the main entrance. “Please state your name and business, sir,” one demanded. He didn’t aim his slug-thrower, but his knuckles stood white on butt and barrel.

  “Commander Dominic Flandry, captain, HMS Asieneuve, here for an appointment with His Excellency.”

  “A moment, please.” The other marine checked. He didn’t merely call the secretarial office, he turned a scanner on the newcomer. “All right.”

  “If you’ll leave your sidearm with me, sir,” the first man said. “And, uh, submit to a brief search.”

  “Hey?” Flandry blinked.

  “Governor’s orders, sir. Nobody who doesn’t have a special pass with full physical ID goes through armed or unchecked.” The marine, who was pathetically young, wet his lips. “You understand, sir. When Navy units commit treason, we … who dare we trust?”

  Flandry looked into the demoralized countenance, surrendered his blaster, and allowed hands to feel across his whites.

  A servant appeared, bowed, and escorted him down a corridor and up a gravshaft. The décor was luxurious, its bad taste more a question of subtly too much opulence than of garish colors or ugly proportions. The same applied to the chamber where Flandry was admitted. A live-fur carpet reached gold and black underfoot; iridescences swept over the walls; dynasculps moved in every corner; incense and low music tinged the air; instead of an exterior view, an animation of an Imperial court masquerade occupied one entire side; behind the governor’s chair of state hung a thrice lifesize, thrice flattering portrait of Emperor Josip, fulsomely inscribed.

  Four mercenaries were on guard, not human but giant shaggy Gorzunians. They stirred scarcely more than their helmets, breastplates, or weapons.

  Flandry saluted and stood at attention.

  Snelund did not look diabolical. He had bought himself an almost girlish beauty: flame-red wavy hair, creamy skin, slightly slanted violet eyes, retroussé nose, bee-stung lips. Though not tall, and now growing paunchy, he retained some of his dancer’s gracefulness. His richly patterned tunic, flare-cut trousers, petal-shaped shoes, and gold necklace made Flandry envious.

  Rings sparkled as he turned a knob on a memoscreen built into the chair arm. “Ah, yes. Good day, Commander.” His voice was pleasant. “I can give you fifteen minutes.” He smiled. “My apologies for such curtness, and for your having to wait this long to see me. You can guess how hectic things are. If Admiral Pickens had not informed me you come directly from Intelligence HQ, I’m afraid you’d never have gotten past my office staff.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I think they’re overzealous about protecting me. One does appreciate their fending off as many bores and triviators as possible — though you’d be surprised, Commander, how many I cannot escape seeing — but occasionally, no doubt, undue delay is caused a person with a valid problem.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. Not to waste your time—”

  “Do sit down. It’s good to meet someone straight from the Mother of us all. We don’t even get frequent mail out here, you know. How fares old Terra?”

  “Well, Your Excellency, I was only there a few days, and quite busy most of them.” Flandry seated himself and leaned forward. “About my assignment.”

  “Of course, of course,” Snelund said. “But grant me a moment first.” His geniality was replaced by an appearance of concern. His tone sharpened. “Have you fresh news of the Merseian situation? We’re as worried about that as anyone in the Empire, despite our own current difficulties. Perhaps more worried than most. Transfer of units to that border has gravely weakened this. Let war break out with Merseia, and we could be depleted still further — an invitation to the barbarians. That’s why McCormac’s rebellion must be suppressed immediately, no matter the cost.”

  Flandry realized: I’m being stalled. “I know nothing that isn’t public, sir,” he said at a leisured rate. “I’m sure Ifri HQ gets regular couriers from the Betelgeusean marches. The information gap is in the other direction, if I may use a metaphor which implies that gaps aren’t isotropic.”

  Snelund laughed. “Well spoken, Commander. One grows starved for a little wit. Frontiers are traditionally energetic but unimaginative.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency,” Flandry said. “I’d better state my business, though. Will the governor bear with me if I sound long-winded? Necessary background … especially since my assignment is indefinite, really just to prepare a report on whatever I can learn … ” Snelund lounged back. “Proceed.” “As a stranger to these parts,” Flandry said pompously, “I had to begin with studying references and questioning a broad spectrum of people. My application for an interview with you, sir, would have been cancelled had it turned out to be needless. For I do see how busy you are in this crisis. As matters developed, however, I found I’d have to make a request of you. A simple thing, fortunately. You need only issue an order.”

  “Well?” Snelund invited.

  He’s relaxed now, Flandry judged: takes me for the usual self-important favorite nephew, going through a charade to furnish an excuse for my next promotion.

  “I would like to interview the Lady McCormac,” he said.

  Snelund jerked upright where he sat.

  “My information is that she was arrested together with her husband and has been detained in Your Excellency’s personal custody,” Flandry said with a fatuous smile. “I’m sure she has a good many valuable data. And I’ve speculated about using her as a go-between. A negotiated settlement with her husband—”

  “No negotiation with a traitor!” Snelund’s fist smote a chair arm.

  How dramatic, Flandry thought. Aloud: “Pardon me, sir. I didn’t mean he should get off scot free, simply that — Well, anyhow, I was surprised to discover no one has questioned the Lady McCormac.”

  Snelund said indignantly, “I know what you’ve heard. They gossip around here like a gaggle of dirty-minded old women. I’ve explained the facts to Admiral Pickens’ chief Intelligence officer, and I’ll explain them again to you. She appears to have an unstable personality, worse even than her husband’s. Their arrest threw her into a completely hysterical condition. Or ‘psychotic’ might not be too strong a word. As a humane gesture, I put her in a private room rather than a cell. There was less evidence against her than him. She’s quartered in my residential wing because that’s the sole place where I can guarantee her freedom from bumbling interruptions. My agents were preparing to quiz McCormac in depth when his fellow criminals freed him. His wife heard, and promptly attempted suicide. My medical staff h
as had to keep her under heavy sedation ever since.”

  Flandry had been told otherwise, though no one dared give him more than hearsay. “I beg the governor’s pardon,” he said. “The admiral’s staff suggested perhaps I, with a direct assignment, might be allowed where they aren’t.”

  “Their men have met her twice, Commander. In neither case was she able to testify.”

  No, it isn’t hard to give a prisoner a shot or a touch of brainshock, when you have an hour or two advance notice. “I see, Your Excellency. And she hasn’t improved?”

  “She’s worsened. On medical advice, I’ve banned further visits. What could the poor woman relate, anyway?”

  “Probably nothing. Your Excellency. However, you’ll appreciate, sir, I’m supposed to make a full report. And as my ship will soon be leaving with the fleet,” unless I produce my authority to detach her, “this may be my lone chance. Couldn’t I have a few minutes, to satisfy them on Terra?”

  Snelund bristled. “Do you doubt my word, Commander?”

  “Oh, no, Your Excellency! Never! This is strictly pro forma. To save my, uh, reputation, sir, because they’ll ask why I didn’t check this detail also. I could go there straight from here, sir, and your medics could be on hand to keep me from doing any harm.”

  Snelund shook his head. “I happen to know you would. I forbid it.”

  Flandry gave him a reproachful stare. Snelund tugged his chin. “Of course, I sympathize with your position,” he said, trading a scowl for a slight smile. “Terra is so far away that our reality can only come through as words, photographs, charts. Um-m-m … Give me a number where you can be contacted on short notice. I’ll have my chief doctor inform you when you can go to her. Some days she’s more nearly sane than others, though at best she’s incoherent. Will that do?”